


Kinesthetic Learning

by Beaufort



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anatomy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sexual Tension, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beaufort/pseuds/Beaufort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing more and nothing less but timeless vignettes of their anatomies, together in space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pelvis

**Author's Note:**

> Please drop by on Tumblr. I go by JDForest. If you're interested, I would be happy to fulfill some requests on different parts of the anatomy.

Matthew scrapes his teeth against Will's clothed hip, sharp lines of canine indentation against the delicate ridge of bone. It's not quite arousal that settles in Will, but a wry familiarity and simultaneous pang of grief for company that is so far away.

He cards his trembling fingers through short dark hair that is coarse and healthy. The hospital is breathlessly quiet, save for the whisper of Matthew's body beneath his sheets. The man is an undulating shape of known horror, and a comedic curve of the spine that all who enter the room would recognize with a distasteful surprise.

They would not have assumed Will Graham had company, here, and in this manner. But then, he is no longer the Will they knew, and what did they ever know of him?

Everyone has changed from who they were, and changed from who they became.

Will inhales a quick cold breath when Matthew tongues the edge of his bandaging, skirting on sore tender skin that send spasms of pain up the circumference of his stomach. The silence then, is of low air pressure and a hideous mutual recognition of unwanted memories.

It is Will that moves first, a hesitant jerky motion. He brushes his knuckles against a distinctively masculine jawline with a faint prickle of stubble and thumbs the small hole of a pierced earlobe. Matthew huffs a low noise of pleasure, and shifts his knees on the narrow bed.

Will guides him back to the canyon of his pelvis, the sharp edge of bone that shows, more than anything, his wane appetite, persistent insomnia, and constant, immortalized fear. This fear comes from too many sources, like vein branching, and it is inclusive of his own sinful designs. 

He considers a future day where he will no longer wake with his current compartmentalization, and the fear would have parasitized his mind completely. You can’t walk on a knife edge forever and not slip, slicing yourself clean, a vertical precision worthy of culinary appreciation.

He closes his eyes with a heavy sense of exhaustion.

Matthew cradles the V of Will's pelvis, that Titanic vulnerability, and lays his head down. He sucks the papery skin of Will's hip, takes it into his warm mouth, and infuses a certain comfort with his open mouthed kisses. Matthew is nothing but a shape beneath the white sheet, but he stays the night, and he stays for all the nights after. He is there, a loyal imprint on the mattress, and a strong heartbeat that tattoos a staccato tune of survival into Will's weary body.

Will pulls Matthew to the gaping rictus of his stomach and prays that it is enough for him to hold on to. 


	2. Pulse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is not physiologically attracted to men. But Matthew is much more than a body, much more than gender or sex or masculine or feminine. He is not genitalia- not what lies between the thighs, nor the cup of a soft breast. He is not muscle definition nor seductive curves. He is nothing so base or simplistic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will mostly be a juxtaposition of the now and then, so, it isn't chronological. I don't think anyone's going to really remember or keep track, but the motif is Will's beautiful pelvis. Its story needs to be told. Much like whoever figured that Will's Booty Shorts is an actual entity. (Check out that twitter account, it's so funny.)
> 
> I'm serious.

Will is not physiologically attracted to men. Has never so much as entertained a single touch or stroke of the skin with the suggestion of a man in mind. Not for internalized homophobia or fear. He just wasn't attracted. With Dr. Lecter it was different, in many ways different, his death was hardly the most pleasant image to become aroused by.

Will admits as much. Matthew understands and keeps their distance respectable.

On certain nights though, Matthew is much more than a body, much more than gender or sex or masculine or feminine. He is not genitalia- not what lies between the thighs, nor the cup of a soft breast. He is not muscle definition nor seductive curves. He is nothing so base or simplistic.

No, not on certain nights, that's wrong. Matthew has never been any of these things.

Will blinks, but the colors continue shifting, and despite the darkness of the cell, there is a fluid myriad of blue, green, black, and grey. He counts his heartbeats, but they are so much faster than he can keep count. Matthew's voice beside him tickles his ears though the man is standing a good few feet away.

He watches Matthew's mouth as they parse through beautiful words that reverberate in his head. Hannibal's agony caresses his skin, skates on his sweat. The man's secrets spill with the blood that pushes between his teeth like a broken river dam, crimson and thick.

Blood mixed with saliva has a different slip and slide than blood with sweat. Matthew whispers to him the path of Hannibal's blood, mouth to neck, chest to stomach, and then collecting in the filthy gutters. Clean, organized, anal retentive Dr. Lecter, mingling in the gutter with everyone else's grime, piss, and body hair.

Will is mesmerized by the work of Matthew's throat, producing music that enters at different frequencies in his ears.

Hannibal hung and strung like a lamb shank. Silenced.

Will memorizes these words, repeats them in his head, but it is hardly enough. They are only small bursts of consolation that light up his nerve endings, but falter and die a few seconds later. He is suddenly wracked by a thirst and frustration, and the creature inside him pushes for greater indulgence and validation.

It is the silence and confinement of this threadbare world that has driven the stag into a craze.

Will clutches at Matthew, fingers digging into the white coat, feeling strong shoulder bones beneath. Will aligns Matthew's chin with his, touches the wet moist give of lips, and presses their mouths together. Will can't settle on the path of his emotions, if they are carnal or sensual or mere transference, but he presses their mouths together again and again to swallow Matthew's words, and feed the rage inside.

In Will's mind, they are in the pool, they are swimming and flying and winning, and when his fingers grasp on the side of the ledge, Will can only imagine Hannibal some ten paces behind. Adrenaline flexes through his body and he is bold with an arousal from the rush of endorphins. He is Matthew looking back in pride, he is Will, finally with the upper hand, he is Matthew as he ties Hannibal up.

Matthew clutches Will's hips, and traces the bone with an obsessive back and forth, mind ensnared by the sharp angles. He listens to Will, who isn't even aware of joining in on the fresco that they are painting, realizing. Will's words are low but they transcend their surroundings with a boldness that sends desire rolling like a cloud of thunder in Matthew's abdomen.

Will teaches him the art of stringing bait. How to tie Hannibal. The tightness of the knots. The depth of the hook. And the strength necessary of the rod.

Matthew writhes and rolls their hips together with harsh stuttered sounds. The repetition of the movement strains his spine but the friction from the grind is freeing. His mind endlessly supplies that this is  _Will_ , he is with  _Will_ , and that this is _Will_ he's feeling. 

He can't breathe in excitement, the dark cell is spinning ominously, and he can't breathe at all as the two of them try to become one in mind. They murmur bits and pieces, sometimes fragments, but most times just singular words layered with meanings that only they understand. 

Matthew threads his fingers through Will's curls and pulls his head back, just for a second, just for a few seconds because they can't breathe, mouth occupied with words and lungs stilled to feel more, and to feel better, without the obstruction of human physiological limitations. 

They watch each other's revenge flicker and dance like flames in the dark of the pupil.

Will's eyes are ablaze.

They've created the perfect positive feedback loop.

In their haze, the fabric burn between them is nothing but a pleasurable friction. Will closes his eyes, but even in the darkness, he can see Matthew's face, eyes screwed shut, lashes fanning out, so close, they're both so close but not close enough. He pulls Matthew in, and presses their hips together, no space, and no movement, no chaotic thrusts, no desperate frotting, just solid matte contact. It's when he finally feels Matthew's pulse beating against his, synchronized along the length of their bodies, forehead to chest to crotch, that semen stains the front of his pants.

Matthew can't tell who the wetness between them belongs to, but it takes only a few seconds for him to realize with blinding clarity, that they did, in the briefest of moments, become one in mind.

Matthew looks up from his soiled pants, and catches Will's dilated eyes, the moment filled with quiet awe and amazement.

Will can still feel the thudding of his heartbeat, too fast to count and bold with youth.

Matthew presses his head against Will's stomach, finding a niche against the curve of his pelvis. Together, they listen to their slowing heart beats, and there's a certain reluctance to let one another go, the melding of their minds was so intimate but ephemeral against the ticking of a clock, the timeline of their lives. 

Will passes a hand through Matthew's hair, while the other man curiously fingers the wet patch on Will's prison scrubs. They say nothing because there is nothing more to be said, nothing that would sound as monumental and immortal as what had just passed.

Instead Matthew caresses Will's pelvis and thinks, _I promise you this, Will. I promise you everything you sung to me tonight._

_And if they are still connected, gods let it be, let Will hear his past, his now, and his future._

_Their future._


End file.
